Adler

My jaw tightens.

“Okay? That’s all you’re going to say?”

The typing stops.

Finally.

He moves, slow, like I’m not even worth the effort. Rolls onto his side, chin sinking into the pillow as he looks at me.

And there’s… nothing there.

No heat. No irritation. No pull.

Just calm. Detached. Tired.

“Yeah. I mean… you always leave. What’s the difference now?”

That lands harder than anything he’s ever said to me.

It’s not loud.

Not angry.

Just… true.

I feel it hit—sharp, clean—like a blade slipping between ribs.

Always leave.

I don’t answer.

For a second, I can’t.

Because if I do, I might actually have to admit something I don’t want to look at.

He turns back to his laptop.

Like I’m done.

Like I don’t matter enough to finish the conversation.

Something in me snaps.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just… a shift.

My grip tightens around the strap of my bag. I stare at his back, at the casual way he dismisses me, like I’m already gone.

Like I’ve been gone for a long time.

…No.

No, I don’t accept that.

I push off the doorway.

Step inside.

The room suddenly feels smaller.

My bag drops to the floor with a dull thud.

He doesn’t even flinch.

That pisses me off more than it should.

“Forget it.”

My voice is lower now. Not casual anymore.

He pauses again, but doesn’t turn.

Good.

Let him listen.

“I’m not leaving anymore.”

Silence.

Real silence this time.

I walk further in, slow, deliberate, until I’m right beside the bed. Close enough to reach him. Close enough to remind him I’m still here.

“You’re right,” I add, quieter, but sharper. “I always leave.”

My gaze drags over him, taking in every inch of that detached posture.

“Let’s see what happens when I don’t.”